


Circus Remix

by GoldandScarlett



Category: Marvel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldandScarlett/pseuds/GoldandScarlett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my take on if the young avengers were the old avengers and vise versa starring Clint Barton as the unwilling protagonist or, as my friend suggested I call it "Clint has teenage hormones and makes even worse decisions then usual".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me if you see grammar mistakes so I can fix them. My brother refused to edit for me so... Sorry about the commas.

There was a girl in Clint's trailer. She was under his bed, with the blankets draped artfully over the side, obscuring her from view, but her hair left a splash on the floor, like blood, and Clint had some of the best eyes around, and was used to paying attention to things. Paying attention to things was how he would avoid getting hit, back at home before the crash.

He notched an arrow into his ever present bow, and stood silent in the doorway, listening to the girl's breathing. It was soft, even. She was most likely asleep then; Clint let the arrow relax a little, so he could pull his door gently closed, and fix the deadlock in place. Then he pulled his string taut again, and coughed pointedly.

The girl’s eyes flew open, and then she saw the arrow pointed at her head and froze.

"You can get out from under the bed if you want," Clint said, which yeah was probably a pretty stupid thing to allow but he didn’t really think this girl wanted to hurt him, and besides, he wanted to get a good look at her. Anyways, he had good reflexes. She tried anything and he could have an arrow in her eye in less than a second.

The girl rolled out. She moved catlike, Clint noted, all cautious grace and with a faint haughtiness about her.

"Right, girly. Whatcha doing sleeping under my bed. And also, why didn't you just use the bed if you were just gonna sleep?"

"Please don't call me girly." The girl said, sounding exasperated. That's probably some sort of milestone for Clint. He had never managed to annoy someone within thirty seconds of meeting them before.

"Sure." Clint said, "What's your name then?"

The girl regarded him suspiciously, as if he could possibly have some sort of nefarious intent behind that question. At last she seemed to give in. "Liliya," she said. Everything she'd said thus far had been sharp, business like. Clint could detect no fear in her demeanor, despite the fact that she was being menaced by a kid with a showy carnival bow which, if that didn't warrant fear, at least deserved a smirk or two.

"That your real name?" Clint asked

Liliya gave him a faintly disgusted look.

Clint sighed. "Okay then, Liliya." Why are you sleeping under my bed?”

"Because," Liliya said. Now she sounded amused. "If I had been sleeping on top of your bed, you would have noticed me."

Clint didn’t even answer that, just lifted his eyebrows and looked at her.

"Most people wouldn't have noticed me." Liliya said. "You have good eyesight." Her English was excellent, only the slightest hint of a Russian accent. Clint wondered if one of her parents was, perhaps, English speaking. He hadn’t seen too many red-heads in Russia so far.

"Alright, well, why are you here then? In a sense more geared towards what I wanna know, I mean."

"I assume you want to know why I’m in your caravan?" Liliya asked.  Clint would have assumed she was mocking him, except something in her tone made him think she really did want to know if that's what he was asking.

"Yeah." He said.

"I've run away." She said, expressionless. "The circus leaves this country soon. I need to get out."

Clint set his bow down. "I get that." He said. "You can go back to sleep if you're still tired. Take the bed this time."

She stared at him. "That's it? You don't want to know what I ran away from? Or why I need to get out?"

Clint shrugged. "Do you wanna tell me?"

"No," she said.

"Well there ya go then. I’ve been there. I get it. Don't murder me in my sleep and you can stay here as long as you like. I won't tell anyone ‘til we're out of the country at least."

Liliya stared at him some more, like she was trying to fit him together in her head. At last she shrugged. "You are far too trusting." She said, but she was yawning again, so Clint only grinned and then went to find some food for her so she could sleep in peace.

When he got back, she had curled herself into a small ball on his bed, looking unbelievably small and fragile. She shivered and moaned in her sleep, her fingers clutching frantically at the blankets. Clint watched her for a moment, feeling a strange ache in his stomach at the familiarity of it all. He remembered working the blankets like that when he first got here, and he was suddenly not so sure he wanted to know where she had come from, or what left her gasping for air like that. He left the food on the table and left again, unable to watch her anymore.

It took her three months to tell him her real name: Natasha. She gave it up matter-a-factly. A simple, “You should stop calling me that. My name is Natasha.” So he did.

She told him other things too. How she loved ballet. How her favourite ballet was Giselle. How she wanted to play the much sought after character herself someday. She didn’t say that part, but Clint could see the wistfulness in her face, as though she’d forgotten she was talking to him at all.

It took another month for the Swordsman to notice something wasn’t right with Clint. He ambushed Clint one day as Clint was leaving the ring.

“I’d like to talk to you.” He said, and his tone made it clear that it isn’t really a request.

Clint clutched his bow to his chest as he followed the Swordsman into the relatively roomy quarters of the Swordsman's trailer. He was certain they were about to be caught. His mind scrambled for a way to warn Natasha and drew a blank, so he settled his face into one of the empty expressions he’d learned from her.

“Yeah?” He said.

“There’s someone in your apartment.” The Swordsman said, and damn Clint knew he wasn’t really one for beating it around the bush but that still seemed a bit fast.

There wasn’t really any point denying anything if the Swordsman already knew so Clint shrugged. “Yeah.” He said again.

The Swordsman watched him, his eyes shrewd and squinted. “Is she in trouble?” He asked, which Clint understood to mean, “is she going to cause us trouble?”

“No, sir. She's uh,” he grinned, embarrassed. “She’s kind of my girlfriend,” he invented.

The Swordsman stared at him. Then he begins to laugh. “Oh Clint,” he said, musing Clint’s hair with one gloved hand, “she’s using you. She’s way out of your league.”

“Have you uh...have you met her sir?”

“No. It’s simple conjecture. Just be careful mon ami. And make sure she’s pulling her weight or she’s gone, girlfriend or no.” Stupid Swordsman and his shitty French accent.

“Listen, Natasha,” Clint said that night. “So, don’t freak out or anything, but the Swordsman knows you’re here.

Natasha stared at him with eyes liquid green. Or where they blue? Who even knew. But that wasn’t important right now. Focus Clint.

“Yeah. He doesn’t seem to mind. But he wants you to pull your weight.”

“So he wants me to steal,” Natasha said, her voice flat.

“Yeah. Basically. I mean, I don’t. But I shoot things. He lets me stay cause I shoot things basically. And he’s bitter about it. Like, I’m pretty sure my brother works double but I’ve never asked cause I don’t wanna know, you know?” Clint was aware, dimly, that he was babbling. It had just occurred to him that Natasha might leave, and he found suddenly, that he couldn’t bare the thought.

“I can’t steal,” Natasha said. “I’m sorry. I can’t be what they want.”

Clint got the feeling she wasn’t talking about the circus and the Swordsman. “What did they want you to be, Natasha?” He wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut.

That night, as they lay in bed side by side, Natasha whispered “I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?” Clint asked.  

“Just until we get to America. Then I’m going to leave.” Clint didn’t say that he’d follow her, but they both know he will.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Clint had missed America. He needed proper pizza in his life. He’d bought about five slices as soon as they’d made it into New York, while Natasha watched him with a faintly exasperated expression. Natasha had been less than impressed with pizza but completely enamored with little Ukraine. Clint suspected that, given any choice, she might never have left Russia, but then, Clint gets the feeling she has not been given a lot of choices in her life.

They had just left the circus and all of Clint’s worldly possessions were in a bag that he swung carelessly off one shoulder, except his bow which he swung off the other. Natasha has informed him that he did not look cool doing this. It did not stop him.

They had left the circus. Clint’s mind seemed caught on that single idea. The Swordsman had frowned and said nothing, and his brother had tossed him a quarter and no phone number, but Clint suspected Barney would be able to find him if he needed to. Barney was a little creepy like that.

They fell into a routine, the two of them. In the beginning, they lived in central park dodging cops on patrol each night, taking turns sleeping. Natasha did gymnastics for tips. She was shockingly good at it, and could go for ceaseless hours.

Clint got a job at a local deli, selling bagels for minimum wage. Sometimes, he and Natasha did double acts.

Then winter came and a bitter cold. So they rented the cheapest apartment they could find, and huddled up under the blankets each night, clinging to each other.

Clint got a promotion. For a while, they were happy. Except apparently America wasn’t far enough, or else _they_ (Clint is after all, still not entirely sure who “they” is. All he is certain of is that they exist) think of Natasha the way Clint does, valuable enough to follow anywhere.

Because it does not take as long as they would have liked for Natasha’s past to come after her.

“Move!” Natasha shouted, and shoved him to the ground. There was the sound of gun shots, hissing sickeningly close to his ear, and then another and another. Clint clambered to his feet and raced after Natasha, weaving dizzily.

Natasha grabbed him, shoved him behind a dumpster, ducked in beside him. A boy all in black with a shining metal arm (and wait, was that thing real?) twisted around the corner after them. He paused, frowning, then his eyes caught on the dumpster and he pulled up the gun again, aimed-

Something bright streaked past them and the gun went clattering from the boy's hand. He clutched the hand to his chest and spun on his attacker, his confusion evident.

“Bucky! Stop!” someone said and holy shit. No, not someone, Captain America. Captain America just said that.

Here was thing about Captain America. Everyone knew the story. He had lied about his age when he was maybe fifteen and followed his best friend into the army about half-way into WWII. Then he got doped up on super serum and became a “national icon” as the papers said. Fought for about three years but then he crashed his plane into icy water and well, he died. At least, Clint had thought he had died, but there he was all star-striped, and righteous.

“Nat?” Clint hissed, but Natasha seemed preoccupied with staring at the boy who Captain America (a totally alive Captain America) had just called Bucky.

“He’s alive,” she whispered and her face, Clint noticed, had gone very white. “Oh my god, Clint he’s still alive.” She had snatched at Clint’s arm and was clenching her fingernails into it painfully.

“Please tell me you’re talking about Cap and not the guy shooting at us,” Clint muttered, but Natasha ignored him and then, in an act so foolish Clint wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness his world had fallen to, she let go off his arm and stepped out from behind the dumpster.

 “Nat!” Clint cried, wincing against the suspected cascade of bullets that would riddle her body full of holes and leave Clint all alone in New York.

The bullets did not come. Instead, the boy, Bucky, turned and stared at Natasha. His arm went up. He dropped his gun, the clatter echoing down the alleyway. Then he reached out his arm to Natasha, as though to touch her face. Suddenly all the light left his eyes, and he collapsed.

“Tony!” Cap cried, his voice reproachful as he rushed to the boy lying sprawled on the hard asphalt.

“Sorry.” Someone entrapped in suit of shining red armor (subtly was clearly not one of the major goals of its engineering) landed lightly beside Cap and Clint rubbed his eyes and decided he was giving up on trying to make sense of any of this. “Couldn’t let him shoot the girl,” the metal encased man continued, flipping up a piece of his helmet to reveal the tanned face of a teenage boy who had obviously just discovered facial hair.

Cap sighed and bent down to check the boy’s vitals. Natasha was still frozen, staring. Clint decided now would probably be a good time to come out from behind the dumpster. Besides, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he was beginning to notice the smell. He crawled out and begin to brush himself off.

“Uh, hi?” He muttered. As metal dude (Tony, Cap had called him) turned to stare at him. “Sorry I just. Uh. I’m with her?” He gestured vaguely, sort of wishing he had stayed behind the dumpster. “Are you, uh. Are you the real Captain America?” He instantly regretted saying it. Even if the guy wasn’t the real Cap, he clearly had at least some super strength, and would probably have no problem beating Clint to a bloody pulp. Also he seemed closer than he should have been to the guy actively trying to kill Nat, which did not mark him as a man of any particular virtue. Clint really hoped he had a good excuse for that because if the guy really _was_ Captain America, Clint really didn’t want to hate him.

The guy who Clint was still in the process of trying to decide if he was Cap or not looked up. Then he took off his helmet, revealing a toothpaste ad kind of grin. “Yeah,” he said. “Please to meet you. Steve Rogers at your service.”

Clint considered the possibility that perhaps he was going insane. He elbowed Nat to see if she too, were seeing this, but she was still staring, transfixed, at the fallen boy.

“Why didn’t he know me?” she asked now, her voice low.

Caps eyes snapped to her. “You know Bucky,” he demanded. Gone was the polite boy who had smiled a toothpaste ad smile. Now he was all military efficiency.

Nat starred back at him, saying nothing. The defiance was evident in her eyes.

Clint decided it was best time he intervene. “Hi, Steve,” he said. “I’m Clint. And this is Natasha. I mean uh, Natalia. You know what, I was gonna try to give you a fake name there but I totally blew that so just like, call her whatever you want. And um… I’m kind of babbling but the point here is that we don’t know anything. We’re kind of just bystanders, and we’re gonna go now. Bye!” He reached to tug Natasha away, but she brushed him off.

“How do you know him?” she said instead.

Clint buried his head in his hands and sighed.

“I’m his best friend,” Cap said at once. Behind him, Tony huffed.

“Really?” Clint said. “Is that why he was running away from you.” Then he slammed his mouth shut. “I mean, sorry. I’m sure your friendship is a beautiful thing and who am I to judge?”

Once again, Steve ignored Clint, but he did earn a laugh from Tony, who Clint sensed did not like Bucky very much.  

“Alright,” Steve said. “I’ve said my part, now it’s your turn. How do you know Bucky?”

“We were friends to,” Natasha said. Her voice had taken on as almost dreamlike quality. “In the red room. We were friends.” She blushed, which was not something Clint had ever seen Natasha do before.

“Look, Steve,” Tony said. “I hate to break up whatever the hell this is, but we should probably get back to base. I’m not actually sure these handcuffs can hold him if he wakes up.

“Wait wait wait,” Clint said. “are you like, a group or something? Have you got a name?”

“Well,” Tony said, “Cap here wants to call us the Young Avengers which I think is incredibly lacking in imagination but who am I to question our dear national icon.”

“So you guys are a super hero team?”

“Uh, yeah?” Tony said. “I’m Iron Man. Or Tony, to my fans.”

"He has no fans.” Steve interjected.  

“Huh. How many of you are there?” Clint asked.

“Uh,” Cap shrugged, sheepishly. “There are… two of us?”

“We’re a work in progress,” Tony cut in. “Always on the recruit, ya know?”

“Yeah? How do you think about having two more members?”

 


End file.
